


mojave christmas punch

by Nomette



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/F, Gen, all companions present but not all featured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 15:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13367286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomette/pseuds/Nomette
Summary: It’s the 24th of December, and the Lucky 38 smells of tamales, pine needles and a mysterious mix of fruit that Raul’s been boiling for hours. Veronica and Arcade must have tracked down every package of Dandy Boy Apples in the Commonwealth to make this drink, but she doesn’t mind. It’s the holidays.





	mojave christmas punch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fallout LGBT Winter Holiday Exchange!

It’s the 24th of December, and the Lucky 38 smells of tamales, pine needles and a mysterious mix of fruit that Raul’s been boiling for hours. Veronica and Arcade must have tracked down every package of Dandy Boy Apples in the Commonwealth to make this drink, but she doesn’t mind. It’s the holidays. Arcade’s put up some kind of weird candelabra he calls a menorah, and there’s a pile of presents sitting in the Rec Room and a bunch of lumpy stockings nailed to the walls, courtesy of Lily’s knitting needles. The V on Veronica’s stocking looks kind of like a U, but she’s not going to complain, not when Christine’s stocking is hanging next to hers. 

Veronica pauses in the doorway to the rec room and leans against the doorway, enjoying the moment. Cass and Boone are playing pool, Rex is sprawled out on the floor, and the Courier and Christine are hanging spent bullet casings on the Christmas tree. Christine’s hair has just cleared two inches, and it sits in a little fuzzy lump on top of her head. Veronica feels a little kick of delight every time she looks at her. She can’t believe she’s gotten so lucky.  Christine didn’t come back from the Sierra Madre the same- she barely talks now, and her hair has only just begun to grow back out, and her scars- but she’s still Christine, and Veronica still loves her, every piece. 

“You going to come help?” the Courier asks.  She’s a skinny, half-feral little thing who doesn’t talk much and doesn’t like to sleep in the same place more than once. Veronica’s always finding her asleep in random corners of the casino, her little hammock dangling between chairs or casino tables. Veronica doubts she’s seen two decades, but Benny’s bullet knocked half the memories out of her head, so there’s no way to know. 

“I carried that thing halfway across the wasteland,” Veronica says. “I think I’ve done my bit.”

“But it’s fun,” the Courier says, puzzled. “Boone’s showing me how to identify the different kind of bullet casings. This is a .38, see?” She holds up a mangled piece of metal, beaming. 

“Good job, kid,” Boone says. 

“I’m more of a Power Fist kind of girl,” Veronica says, flexing to show off her weapon. The Courier contemplates Veronica, then glances back at the tree. 

“We could put it on top,” she says, sounding kind of dubious. Christine makes a muffled snorting sound and bursts into laughter.

“No way,” Veronica says, wrapping a protective hand around her power fist. 

“I think that’s a great idea,” Christine manages between giggles. “You have to admit, it would match the tree.” The tree- a scraggly looking young pine Veronica dragged all the way from the mountains near Jacobstown- is covered in bullets casings and caution tape. Several glowing bottles of Nuka-Cola Quantum have been wedged between the branches. The tree looks like it’s ready to come to life and stage an uprising against humankind. 

“I don’t know,” Cass says thoughtfully, and smirks around the rim of her glass of whiskey. “I think it would look pretty good with Boone’s beret on top.”

“No,” Boone says. 

“It is colorful,” the Courier says thoughtfully. 

“ _ No _ ,” says Boone, and Veronica takes advantage of the distraction to slip away. 

 

Arcade and Raul are in the kitchen, along with a alrge pot of what Raul calls “ponche” and an even larger pot of tamales. Rex is sprawled out in front of the oven, keeping an eye on the large chunk of Brahmin which has been roasting since this morning. He catches sight of Veronica and whimpers and wags his tail. 

“Don’t listen to that faker, we’ve been giving him scraps all day,” Arcade says cheerfully. 

“When are you going to give me scraps?” Veronica asks, and imitates Rex’s mournful face. Arcade gestures to the stove. 

“There’s unmashed potatoes, refried beans, apple pie, carrot cake, Cass’s jalapeño cornbread, Cass’s go-blind eggnog, and ponche. Knock yourself out.”

“Unmashed potatoes?”

“Well, I haven’t mashed them yet,” Arcade says. “I’ve been busy with the tamales.” He and Raul have made what looks like about a million tamales to Veronica, and they’re only partway through the huge tub of masa. There’s a whole assembly line on the table- masa, leaves, stewed brahmin, chickpeas. Raul looks up from his current tamale and grins.

“You wanna eat, mija? You better work. Those tamales aren’t going to fold themselves.”

“Oh-fine!” Veronica says. It’s this or get robbed of her power fist, she supposes, and she’s always liked mashing potatoes. Halfway through mashing, she feels a warm pair of arms around her waist, and looks back to find Christine, her head leaning against the small of Veronica’s back.

“Hey there,” Veronica says happily. “You come to bust me out of this life of labor?”

“Nope,” Christine says, and stands on her tiptoes to peer over Veronica’s shoulder. She’s so small. Back in the day, Veronica used to pick her up and cart her around the bunker at every possible opportunity. 

“Hmmm,” Christine says, and sneaks a bit of potato onto her finger and licks it off. A small smile sneaks onto her face, and Veronica can’t help but blush. She’d mash a hundred potatoes just to see that smile. She leans over and plants a kiss on Christine’s cheek, and Christine flushes and ducks away, smiling. 

Neither Raul nor Arcade say anything; Raul is engrossed enough in his tamales that Veronica doubts he’s even noticed, but Arcade gives her a wink. It’s nice to be among friends. Christine settles down next to the Raul at the table and pokes at one of the finished tamales. 

“So, how do you make one of these?” she asks Raul. 

“Well, you start with the leaf…” Raul begins. 

 

It takes them another two hours to get through all the tamales, and everyone is hungry by the time they sit down at the table and start serving food. Lily has a custom-made seat just for her, an early Christmas present from Raul and Boone to allow her to sit at the table with them. Veronica, Christine and Arcade are on the right side, Boone, Cass and Raul on the left. The Courier sits at the head of the table, food already piled on her plate. 

“You want to say grace, mija?” Raul asks the Courier. 

“Grace?” she asks, a little line appearing between her eyebrows.

“It’s traditional to thank God before eating a big meal,” Arcade explains. 

“Uh, sure,” the Courier says. She clasps her hands together, then begins to speak. “Thank you Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth, for growing the crops, and thank you Hermes for my good luck, and thank you Hades for my life. I promise to kill a legionnaire in your name before the New Year, thank you, amen.”

“Fascinating,” Arcade says, and gets elbowed by Christine. The courier is a little weird, but so is Arcade, and he doesn’t have the excuse of being a teenaged ex-slave. “Uh, amen,” he says hastily. Cass looks like she’s trying real hard not to laugh. Boone lifts his glass and grins. 

“To killing legionnaires,” he says, and everyone around the table echoes the sentiment. They clink glasses, and everyone digs in. Raul’s punch is fruity and sweet, with a faint hint of sunset sarsaparilla, almost almost worth the trouble it took Christine and Veronica to find twenty boxes of Dandy Boy Apples. There’s a mountain of tamales, some heinously spicy cornbread, moonshine, apple pie, pinto beans stewed with molerat, carrot cake, eggnog, roasted brahmin, gravy, and mashed potatoes.  

Back at the Brotherhood, they mostly ate variations on carrots and potato, since they couldn’t get much to grow around the bunker. Fried potato, mashed potato, boiled potato, potato soup, potato salad- every potato and then some. Veronica skips the mashed potato and goes for the cornbread and roasted brahmin, and sees Christine do the same next to her. They grin at each other, and Christine serves Veronica a slice of pie. 

“What’s in this?” Arcade asks, shoving a piece into his mouth. “I thought Raul used all the apple in his ponche.”

“Mutfruit,” Cass says matter-of-factly. “Some other stuff too, but I don’t kiss and tell.”

It’s quiet for a while as everyone stuffs their face. At first, the Courier had to be bullied into eating with a fork instead of with her hands, but she came around after Veronica pointed out that if you carry a fork and knife with you, you can also use them as back-up weapons. The Brahmin is spicy and savory, with a crisp outside and a juicy inside, and it vanishes as fast as people can cut pieces free. Everyone has at least one of Raul’s tamales, and Boone has three. The man puts away food like a refrigerator. 

Afterwards, when they’re all full enough to burst, one of the securitrons comes in and clears the plates, and Rex finally gets his plate of scraps. 

“I feel like the casino is going to collapse under my weight,” Cass says, groaning. 

“Could that happen?” the Courier asks. She doesn’t look worried, only curious. Veronica supposes that once you’ve been shot through the head, a little building collapse probably doesn’t sound too bad. 

“Probably not,” Arcade says hastily. He starts in on an explanation of how architecture works, but Veronica doesn’t hear any of it, because Christine has reached out under the table and taken her hand. One by one, she laces their fingers together. They used to do this back at the dining table in the hall, but back then it was one part bravado and one part fear. Veronica isn’t scared anymore. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees. 

But she doesn’t need to show them. It’s enough that she and Christine know. Christine runs her thumb gently over the edge of Veronica’s hand, and they stay there like that, smiling, together at last. Dinner conversation turns from mutfruit to apples to weird things they’ve eaten, and Cass disgusts them all with tales of some truly dubious liquor. She and Boone are well on their way to being smashed, which bodes poorly for the midnight fireworks they promised the courier.

Only the Courier’s excited demand to get them all to the Christmas Tree for presents dislodges them from the table. Veronica and Christine walk, hand in hand, to the rec room, followed by a slightly staggering Boone and a very staggering Arcade, who got stuck supporting him. The debate about the star has been settled by ED-E nesting on top of the tree like a very strange bird. 

Veronica settles onto the couch, and Christine settles onto her lap. Christine is light, a pleasant weight, and she grins when Veronica sneaks a kiss onto the side of her face. The Courier, oblivious to the people watching her, tears into her first present. It’s a framed piece of paper- nothing more than a contract, really. The Courier isn’t very good at reading. She looks at the paper, her lips moving as she tries to sound out the words. 

Arcade, ever thoughtful, underlined the relevant part.

“... the undersigned Ca-Can-tra-ta,” the Courier says, frowning. “Cantrata. What does that mean?”

“Veronica and I did some research,” Arcade says. By research, he means that they broke into a privately owned building, but no one needs to know that. The man at the front desk of the Mojave Express deserves it for being so unhelpful, anyway, and it’s not like they stole anything valuable. “We looked up the records from when you were hired, and found what you signed as. It’s your name. Cantrata. I think it comes from Cantare, to sing.”

The courier looks at the paper, then at Arcade. 

“My name,” she says, and repeats it. “Cantrata.” A strange look crosses her face. “I used to sing,” she says to herself,  then gets up and launches herself at him. Arcade wraps his arms around her and pats her back. 

“Hey, I helped,” Veronica says, and Arcade gestures for her to join in the hug. The three of them squish awkwardly together on the couch, and for a moment Veronica is on the verge of having a real Christmas feeling. 

“Thank you!” Cantrata says, and wiggles out of the hug. “I got you something too!” Whatever it is, it’s apparently too big to fit under the tree, because Cantrata runs out of the room. There’s a loud clunk, and then she comes back hauling a huge power fist painted entirely in teal and pink.

“It sets off explosives when you punch people,” she says solemnly, and hands it to Veronica. 

“Uh,” Veronica says, and picks it up. One side has a yellow warning sign on it. The other side has Veronica’s full name written on it in beautiful pink calligraphy, complete with a little heart dotting the i. There’s little rhinestones around the cuff. The courier must have hired someone to bling it out. 

“It’s beautiful,” Veronica says solemnly, and Cantrata grins. 

“Open your next present,” she says. 

There’s a matching dress. 

 

Veronica’s final haul is a power fist from Cantrata and a dress from Arcade and Cass, a new waist pouch from Boone, a blanket from Raul, a lumpy sweater from Lily, and one more thing. After the festivities have died down, Veronica and Christine go back to their room and shut the door. 

Christine’s presents come in two colorful little bags. The first one is light.  Veronica lifts it out to find a cute little bra and underwear set. There’s not very much of it. 

“You can wear it under your dress,” Christine says, flushing. 

The second pair is a set of shoes, likely looted from some vault. They’re a little dusty, but they fit well. Veronica slips her feet into them, and remembers. Back when she and Christine were kids in the bunker, it was a common game to talk about what you’d do when you left. No one ever left, of course, but it was fun to pretend that you would. Some kids wanted to be ranchers, some wanted to be singers, some wanted to be gamblers or rangers or deathclaw tamers. Veronica wanted to be a princess. She wanted to have a pretty dress, and live in a colorful, safe place where they never had to eat potatoes or worry about raiders. She wanted someone to love her, not for what she could do for them, but for who she was. 

“A glass slipper, for my princess,” Christine says, smiling. 

“I could be in rags, and you’d still make me feel like a queen, Christine,” Veronica says, and crosses the room. Christine’s hands are so small in her own. “But the pretty dress sure helps.”

“You were a princess when we were in a hole in the ground,” Christine whispers. “But you finally made it to your tower. Merry Christmas.”

On the roof, Boone, Cass and Raul are drunkenly shooting off fireworks. The sound rings through the air. Outside the window, sparks rain down over the strip in showers of gold and green, but Veronica only has eyes for Christine. Their lips brush, and for a single perfect moment, the world is exactly as Veronica has always dreamed. 


End file.
